


Ghosts and Other Inconveniences

by redeyereprisal



Category: Naruto
Genre: Butterfly Effect, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chakra Theory, Drabble Collection, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Ghosts, Not A Fix-It, Not entirely anyway, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyereprisal/pseuds/redeyereprisal
Summary: Hatake Kakashi is born with a pale specter looming over him like a particularly intrigued portent of upheaval. He is three when his father finds him conversing with the vacant air next to a shaken Orochimaru, hair swaying in a breeze that does not exist. It is not until he is eight that the changes are felt rippling their way across the continent.





	1. Kazuki — The Littlest Scarecrow

Hatake Kakashi was born on a miserable Thursday morning in the bustling medical tent of a Konoha outpost, crying softly and with far more decorum than any newborn baby had a right to possess. He did not scream, as most babies are wont to do, but nobody in the outpost was particularly concerned with this; there was more than enough screaming coming from outside the tent, where Suna and Konoha shinobi could be found slaughtering each other indiscriminately.

“My sweet baby,” his mother crooned at him, even as she attempted to foist him off on a nearby medic so she could go join in the bloodshed. “You'll look just like your father, I can tell.”

She was not wrong, though how she could have already known such a thing is a mystery nobody ever solved. The medic grunted noncommittally and forced her back into bed. She ignored them.

The fading, semi-transparent specter standing behind her nodded in agreement, his long silver hair falling into his face as he did so.

“Yes, yes, the Hatake genes are as strong as ever,” he said mildly, reaching out to pat the child's tiny hands, and Kakashi’s soft cries tapered off as he looked to the man in wonder.

To all of the other occupants of the room, it appeared as if his mother had somehow quieted him with her words _._ They all cooed and babbled at him, in response, remarked upon how he already recognized his mother, how lucky she was to have such a cute and clever little baby. She shied away from the attention, for the most part, before giving Kakashi a small, pleased little smile. She would then tell her husband, hours later, all about how their little boy already knew his mama, and Hatake Sakumo would laugh joyfully in response. Kakashi would look at his parents in bleary, innocent, infantile confusion, and they would simply continue their cooing and gushing until he dozed off in his father's arms.

To the spirit of Hatake Kazuki, meanwhile, it had become abundantly clear that his great-grandson just heard him speak, saw him move, and felt him touch. Said great-grandson was also apparently entranced with his presence, if the way his underdeveloped eyes attempted to seek out his figure was any indication. Kazuki blinked a few times in mystified shock, unbelieving that such a thing had occurred, before laughing boisterously.

“Well, now,” he said jovially, staring down at the baby with pride sparkling in his eyes. “It looks like my legacy hasn't died out just yet.”

He crouched down low, poking an intangible finger through the child's chest and pressing icy lips to his forehead.

“Use it well, little scarecrow.”

Hatake Kazuki gave one last smile at the newest addition to his family, and then promptly dissolved in a small explosion of light and chakra.

Little Hatake Kakashi, who up until then had seemed to possess more decorum than any newborn baby had a right to, burst into loud, wailing tears, shocking everybody in the outpost tent enough to send both senbon and kunai flying.

It was merely the first of many such instances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been adding bits and pieces to this drabble fic over the course of a year, and though it’s not done, I really, REALLY wanted to post it during October. I have the first fifteen chapters either done or 100% planned out (GASP) so I’ll be trying to post a chapter at least once or twice a week. Updates after that will either slow to a crawl or continue in a similar fashion; I’m thinking of working on this for NaNoWriMo, but haven’t made a final decision as of yet. “But Reprise, don’t you need to work on the eye of a storm?” …Anyway, we’ll see how things go.


	2. Sakumo — The Hatake Clan Legacy (Age 3)

Hatake Sakumo, despite his fearsome reputation across borders, was somewhat well-known amongst his fellow Konoha shinobi for being a massive worry-wart. To the surprise of anyone who was semi-familiar with the life and times of the White Fang off-duty, this was not the direct result of him doting on his three year old son. He had instead earned this dubious title on a mission he’d run as a fresh jōnin with the recently-dubbed Sannin, where he spent the better part of two days fretting over an injured and chakra exhausted Orochimaru.

That Tsunade had been able to heal all but the chakra exhaustion was irrelevant. He had been _very_ concerned. The snake summoner had spat metaphorical (and literal) venom at the smothering Hatake throughout the entire trip for his unwanted attention and sheer audacity. Jiraiya, meanwhile, had guffawed, chuckled, and chicken-clucked his way back to Konoha. Unsurprisingly, it was the latter that caught people’s attention. Sakumo’s future teams were simply resigned when his borderline paranoid protective instincts reared their ugly head. His previous ones found themselves feeling unbearably smug. They _had_ tried to warn everyone, after all.

The origin of his status as Konoha’s number one mother hen, however, was not the important part. Said status was important only so that context might be provided when focus was shifted onto the unfortunate target of nearly all of his undivided attention: his three year old son.

Anyone who knew Hatake Sakumo even peripherally knew that he adored his son. The Second War had been a horrific bout of bloodshed that left even the scattered veterans of the First War emotionally hardened, and he was no exception. The death of his wife Sayuri — a tragedy brought about by the poor conditions during Kakashi’s unexpectedly premature birth; tents, even medical ones, were not the most sanitary places — only left him further scarred. Little Kakashi was the sole light in his life, so it was no surprise that Sakumo smothered him with thrice as much care and affection as he would his grown shinobi comrades. Kakashi had always been a remarkably tolerant child in that regard.

Lately, however, Sakumo had become… worried. It was a little less than two months before Kakashi was to turn four, which meant it was a little less than two months before Kakashi was to begin his pre-Academy training. There was nothing in Sakumo that even remotely believed his son would be anything other than a shinobi. He was perhaps the most advanced child Sakumo had ever had the pleasure to come across in his life, speaking in broken phrases and walking shakily before age one, and he had always taken absolute pride in the fact. Their clan was notorious for churning out highly advanced and maturely spoken children, but Kakashi was on another level entirely. He couldn’t believe how incredible his son was.

Yet, there had always been something slightly _off_ with the youngest Hatake. Sakumo had first taken notice of it not long after Sayuri died. Kakashi would cry, constantly and relentlessly, for hours, no matter what Sakumo did to quiet him. Then his blue-black eyes would zero in on something out of sight, and he would fall quiet. Any pattern there might have been was too complex to grasp; even on the rare occasions where Sakumo was restricted to in-village assignments for multiple weeks at a time, he found himself scratching his head in perplexion at the random fits. They were a persistent problem for nearly a year, before they slowly tapered off into sullen, petulant silences.

It was then that things normalized. Or, well, it was then that things normalized as much they _could_ , given the family in question. Kakashi’s screaming fits and silent treatment gradually faded into a thing of obscurity. He instead spent almost all of his time babbling semi-meaningful words and tottering around in a determined effort to become as coherent and impressive as his father. More than once Sakumo walked into his son’s room to find the toddler running his mouth at himself, narrating each action he took with the sort of concise clarity one would expect of a five year old. Initially, he hadn’t thought much of it; all children, even genius Hatake children, liked the sound of their own voices, the feeling of self-importance that was brought about by giving their actions meaning or acknowledgement. He had been the same way, or so his mother had told him. He left Kakashi to his one-sided conversations, and that was the end of it.

Then his babysitter quit.

“I can’t _take it_ ,” she had hissed, spitting mad and a little wild-eyed. “The things he says, the way he— I am _through_ working for you, Hatake. You and your… son stay as far away from my business as possible. I won’t sit back and allow whatever curse that child has afflict itself upon _me,_ too.”

Sakumo had seen red. _Curse_ , she said? As though his son were— were something vile, instead of the only source of joy in his dimming world— he had kicked her out of the house quickly enough to give her whiplash, demeanor as cold and biting as steel. There was nothing wrong with his son. Even if his tendency to mumble to himself was a bit over the top in frequency, that was no reason to accuse him of being _cursed_. He should have known better than to hire from a civilian company, really. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But then, to Sakumo’s shock, the shinobi quit too. “There is something wrong with your child, Hatake,” they would say, or “he needs to keep his mouth shut.” He’s strange. He’s cruel. Things eerily reminiscent of the civilian’s cry of _cursed_. Time after time, again and again, each retired jōnin, desk chūnin, eternal genin, team of three little brats barely out of the Academy— they would all quit, unsettled and angry. Apologetic only in retrospect, and never willing to subject themselves to a few hours with Hatake Kakashi ever again. He was at a loss.

Kakashi was… a bit too honest, that was true. That he was intelligent enough to dish out childish frankness with the tone and vocabulary of someone beyond his age only made his blunt statements all the more impactful. He also had the tendency to mention people who did not strictly exist— imaginary friends he had had as long as Sakumo could remember, a man he called “Ji-san” and an indeterminately gendered ANBU called “Shi.” They were the two people his son narrated his daily life to so diligently each day, and though even Sakumo could admit that the intensity with which he did so was a bit worrying, there was nothing overtly strange about it. Children having imaginary friends was _normal_. Perhaps the intricacy of each story that Kakashi spun around them was impressive, but Kakashi also knew what _neurofibromatosis_ meant. Sakumo wasn’t worried. Not until one of the jōnin instructors in charge of a babysitting team pulled him aside with a look of solemn concern.

“Hatake-san,” Yamanaka Inori had begun, eyes grave and shoulders tense. “Have you spoken to Kakashi about his— friends, before?” Sakumo had felt his brow furrow at the query, the corners of his lips turning down into a slight frown.

“No,” he replied, frown becoming further pronounced as Inori’s lips visibly thinned. “He’s had them for as long as he’s been walking and talking, so I’ve never felt the need. He’ll grow out of them eventually. Why?”

“I think your son may have a form of psychosis.”

Sakumo had blinked, entirely thrown by the suggestion. He _what?_

“He just turned _three_ ,” he said, clearly bewildered, but Inori had only become more agitated.

“Yes, I _know_ , which is why I was reluctant to suggest it until now. It should very much be impossible, or at least unlikely. But— Hatake-san, how much attention do you _actually_ pay to Kakashi-kun’s stories?”

Not much, admittedly. He had been hearing them for so long that they’d become a bit like white noise to him. He vaguely recalled the recent addition of Ji-san’s allegedly stuffy brother to the mix of colorful characters, though a name had never been given beyond a few choice ones he was certain Kakashi shouldn’t yet know. All mention of Shi had been curiously absent as of late, also. Beyond that… well, Sakumo couldn’t be sure. Something about Uzushio, perhaps?

“Enough,” was what he actually said, however, because that was also true. Sakumo was not just a father, he was a _shinobi_. A damned good one, at that. His senses and instincts were trained to a fine point the likes of which Yamanaka Inori could not even comprehend. The mere mention of anything off or suspicious would draw his attention far more easily than his son’s tendency to badmouth “pack interlopers” via his imaginary friends. It was a _good_ thing his son hadn’t managed to alarm him yet. Inori visibly restrained a sigh.

“Well, with all due respect, enough isn’t _enough_ , Hatake-san. Please consider bringing him to one of the pediatric therapists of my clan if his insistence upon having ‘imaginary friends’ continues through the next six months. And listen more carefully to his stories. Please.”

And with that, Yamanaka Inori had collected his terrified genin and marched stiffly out of the Hatake home. Mystified and incensed, Sakumo had just nodded before slamming the door in his face.

The incident was not forgotten, however. It couldn’t have been. Not when Kakashi had continued to cycle through genin teams like a rotating door, withdrawing into himself more and more over time. Not when Sakumo noticed with increasing concern the way his son’s decreasing tales wove together into complex character webs too intricate to be the mere word of a genius three year old. Shi had apparently returned from wherever it was he had absconded to; Ji-san’s brother was never mentioned again, as though he had never been brought up in the first place. The stories never completely stopped coming. Sakumo found himself uncertain as to whether or not he should be doing something about it.

Then he noticed that Kakashi had not fallen silent out of moodiness; he’d simply traded one method of communication for another. Six months after his third birthday, Sakumo found Kakashi stumbling through ANBU hand signs alone in his bedroom.

Contrary to popular belief, Sakumo had never been a member of ANBU. Between his hair, special chakra, fighting style, and clan-forged weapons, he was one of the most recognizable shinobi on the continent, and such notoriety did not lend itself well to stealth organizations. Offers had been made, but they had been out of formality rather than any genuine desire for him to join the organization. He was ANBU quality. He was also a front line combat specialist. There was no reason for him to join when espionage and sabotage were better suited towards Konoha shinobi without continent-wide Kill On Sight orders. Nobody in the organization had questioned the wisdom of such a decision.

Despite this, however, he _did_ have passing familiarity with ANBU hand signs. He had seen them used frequently enough that he had picked up a few more common ones— all-clear, disengage, enemy, ally, break formation, other things of that nature. Distinguishing the slight, smooth signals from the haphazard gestures of Konoha Standard was as easy as breathing for him at that point. Which only made it all the more jarring to see Kakashi copying those miniscule movements alone in his room, words of bedtime and curfews crumbling to ash on Sakumo’s tongue.

“Where did you learn that?” He had asked sharply, and the answer had been as expected as it was frightening.

“Shi’s teaching me.”

Once, Sakumo could write off as happenstance. The complicated people and events Kakashi had prattled on about for years were mentioned to be a worrying topic with enough frequency that he perhaps should have been more initially concerned, but they were still just a single factor. He told himself the infantile fits were unrelated.

Twice, he could claim to be coincidence. Shi very well might have been an actual ANBU Kakashi had encountered a time or two, one that had taken to demonstrating the most basic hand signs for a boy who was obviously a young prodigy. Any stories about the mysterious figure could easily be embellishments made by Kakashi himself. Their being real would also explain why they had seemingly disappeared from his vocabulary for so many months; Kakashi hadn’t seen them during that time, and lost interest. It was a shaky explanation at best. Sakumo’s unease grew.

Three times, however. If things ballooned out of his control to the point that there were _three times—_

And so, that brought things back to _now_. Two months before Kakashi’s fourth birthday, Sakumo’s well-known tendency towards worry having almost boiled over with time and stress. Ji-san and Shi had not been mentioned in two weeks. It was just as long since they last changed babysitters. Sakumo had decided to take Kakashi out for lunch as a treat for good behavior, Kakashi wandered off, and then—

Then he had followed indulgently after his wayward son, only to find him engaged in casual conversation with vacant air. Next to him, Orochimaru was crouched to his eye level, still and wary. There was a look somewhere between poleaxed and hungry on his face. Kakashi gestured, and the expression shattered into something he’d much sooner call _haunted_.

“—happy to keep waiting for you. So you don’t have to stay here for her, or Yashagorō,” his impossible son was saying, the name tickling something in the back of Sakumo’s head. He mulled it over for a moment, but he couldn’t quite recall where he’d heard it before. The snake summoner clearly knew it, at least. His eyes had widened ever so slightly before they fell half-lidded and narrow.

“And why is that?” He rasped back, in that disconcerting way only he could manage. His hands were fisted into his pants with enough strength to tear the fabric. If he noticed the elder Hatake’s approach, he gave no indication of such.

“Because you’ll see each other again anyway,” Kakashi said it like he was speaking to a particularly thick fool. “Why would she have waited for you, otherwise?”

Orochimaru’s shoulders trembled, and Sakumo knew it was time to intervene.

“Kakashi,” he called out, not bothering to hide the anxiety in his voice. “There you are. It’s time to go home.” Kakashi turned towards him as if his presence were entirely expected. It was something that had always torn Sakumo between pride at the younger’s senses, and dismay that he couldn’t even sneak up on his son.

“Chichiue,” he replied contritely, “We’re not done talking to Hinoki-san yet. Can’t you wait?”

 _No, preferably not,_ he wanted to say, but any response he might have thought to give him was cut off when Orochimaru rose gracefully to his feet. His hands smoothed out the creases in his kimono shirt with an easy elegance Sakumo had always found fascinating.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, spine straight and stiff. The tremble Sakumo had noticed was gone as quickly as it had come. “I believe I have heard enough. If… _Hinoki-san_ has anything else she wishes to tell me, I’m sure you can find me at a later date.”

Kakashi’s eyes drifted unerringly towards the vacant space he’d spoken to earlier. His hair tousled itself lightly, as though ruffled by the breeze, but the air was as stagnant and stifling as Sakumo’s growing concern. Orochimaru watched the phenomenon with the barest touch of uncertainty. Finally, Kakashi nodded decisively, and Sakumo swooped down to pick him up almost before the he’d completed the action.

“Hatake,” Orochimaru greeted him neutrally. Sakumo dipped his head in faint greeting.

“Orochimaru. I’m… sorry about whatever my son might have said,” his reply was cautious at best. He had no idea who Hinoki was. That was a name Kakashi had never used before, and it was one Sakumo recognized only as faintly as he had Yashagorō. This was not one of the distinctive personalities he knew as intimately as his own family, like Shi and Ji-san. Kakashi could have said anything ranging from kind to wildly inappropriate and insulting. It was fairly hit or miss in circumstances like these.

“He is a unique conversationalist,” the Sannin replied, head inclined in acknowledgement of the apology. “I do not mind. Your… _chichiue_ knows where to find me should you have need of me, child. I am interested to hear more of your gift.”

The latter was clearly directed at Kakashi, and the three year old nodded in solemn agreement to the passive request. Sakumo tried not to appear too indignant at the hint of humor contained in the word “chichiue.” It was an archaic word, yes, but it was what Kakashi had always preferred to call him by. No matter how many times Sakumo tried to convince him that otou-san was just as acceptable.

“Keep a close eye on your son, Hatake. I can think of many people who would not take kindly to such abilities,” Orochimaru continued, smooth as the scales on his summons, and Sakumo stiffened.

“Yes,” he agreed tersely. “I am aware. Have a nice day, _Orochimaru-sama_.”

An indulgent smirk stretched easily across the snake summoner’s lips, and then Sakumo was retreating, Kakashi held firmly in his arms. His steps home were as quick as he could manage without outright running. Kakashi’s silence was subdued.

He had lied, before; as aware as he might have been towards the harsh feelings others held for his son, Sakumo had never managed to figure out what it was Kakashi saw when he spoke aloud, alone in his room. The ANBU signs had been a tipping point, but this was the last straw. If even the clan texts held nothing of value, they’d be going to that pediatric therapist Yamanaka Inori had mentioned.

It was time to find out what was going on with his son.

* * *

Buried deep in the archives found in the far reaches of his clan home two days later, Sakumo could only sigh as yet another text brought forth no relevant information. He had only the vaguest details to look for — talking to air, knowing people and things that should not be known, particularly advanced thought — but he had hoped there would be _something_ hidden amongst the reams of secrets and decades passed. The Hatake were an eclectic clan. Small, yes, but diverse. Even with the focus they had on weaponry, they had other signatures and quirks. Canine summons. Distinctive chakra. _Agriculture,_ for the Sage’s sake. Surely _someone_ over the course of history must have seen something similar to Kakashi’s odd behavior?

Apparently not. Six hours later, and still he had nothing. Only texts and journals from the Shodaime’s reign were left, alongside the very few spotty recounts from the Warring States Era, and Sakumo had a dim feeling that not even they would be much help. Very little from that time was. Shoulders drooped, he shuffled his way through another stack of books, scrolls set aside to be read and rerolled later. Most of them were simply full of smithing techniques. He was rapidly tiring of the word “steel.”

Thirty minutes of suffering later, he tossed the book aside. Shinobi arts again. Did nobody ever keep a normal journal? Were they truly so paranoid that they didn’t even recount their daily life? Only their shinobi knowledge, beneath chakra-lock and key? His hope was all but non-existent at this point. He picked up the next book—

_Hatake Kazuki  
11 th Head of the Hatake Clan_

_For those who see too much._

—and all the air left him in a rush. That was certainly not a smithing-related title. That was… promising, actually. There was a seal in the center of the cover, a chakra-lock Sakumo knew to be keyed specifically into the Hatake Clan. It was one he had to paint religiously onto each and every official document he left in the Clan Head archive. Opening only for those who carried the unique color of chakra found amongst their clan. That this journal had it despite being in the general archive spoke volumes of how much importance Hatake Kazuki placed upon it. Not quite daring to hope after so much disappointment, Sakumo channeled a small trace of chakra into the seal, apprehension only growing as it glowed and faded into obscurity. He opened to the first page slowly, and he read.

Then he read it again. And again. Then he turned the page, and read the next one too. Then the next one. He read the entire journal in less than an hour, and then he read it again just to be sure he hadn’t missed any important information. Nearly two hours after he first picked up Hatake Kazuki’s journal, Sakumo stumbled out of the archives and into his son’s room with the book clutched in his hands like a lifeline.

“Kakashi?” He called cautiously, only barely aware of the late hour. Ordinarily, he would have told his son to go to sleep an hour ago. Apparently such a thing was just as necessary as he’d always thought, too. Kakashi was seated at a kotatsu, wide-awake.

“Chichiue?”

“Kakashi, please look at this.”

The journal was passed across the table, already open to the first page. Kakashi’s eyes lit up as soon as they passed the first line, bright with the giddy realization that they had just stumbled on a veritable gold mine of information.

“Kazuki-sofu left a journal?” He said with excitement, and Sakumo’s certainty that he had found an answer only further solidified.

“Apparently— how did you know about him already? Did one of the…”

“Ji-san told me about him,” was the nonchalant reply. “He’s the one that invited Kazuki-sofu to the village, so he remembered him really well. He wasn’t sure if sofu left anything for me, though.”

Sakumo felt his heart seize in his chest.

“I see,” he said faintly. “Say, what was Ji-san’s name again?”

Kakashi hummed noncommittally, eyes still roving across the journal page with hunger. His head cocked to the side, clearly listening. Sakumo wondered what he was hearing.

“Ji-san says I can tell you now, so I guess it’s alright,” the toddler said, matter-of-fact, and the next sentence only further spiralled things out of Sakumo’s slipping grasp. “His name’s Hashirama. He was one of the Hokages, I think.”

That was what Sakumo was afraid of.

 _The dead do not rest easily,_ Hatake Kazuki wrote, and Sakumo watched helplessly as his son’s eyes ate the words up with greed.

Something told him parenting was going to be a bigger handful than he’d initially anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY NARUTO, I made your sensei even more annoyingly omniscient as a present!
> 
> Sakumo is surprisingly hard to characterize. Finding a balance between a genuinely kind family man and a merciless war hero is… uh, an experience, certainly. I feel like his voice is a bit bland as a result. Whoopsies. Have some glimpsed Orochimaru drama to offset that.
> 
> Ji-san means “uncle,” in case you were wondering what Kakashi was calling Hashirama all this time.
> 
> Also, I finally have an account that isn’t associated with people I know IRL, so hey, follow me on twitter @[redeyereprise](https://twitter.com/redeyereprise). I talk about writing and fandom stuff. Sometimes tidbits that didn’t make it into the written chapter are mentioned/posted. I like making friends, so talk to me lots. Please.


	3. Interlude — To my descendant

**From the journal of Hatake Kazuki:**

_Year 896 A.N.  
XX of November_

_To my descendent, whomever you may be—_

_There are many things I do not understand about this ~~cu **rs**~~ gift of mine. My father was no help; his father was even less so. Grandmother would swear by her forge that these abilities were those possessed by her own mother Nanoha, but we hold nothing substantial from that era of slaughter except for stale grief. Whether or not this gift is one our family cultivated in the past is yet to be seen. Knowing what I do, I would not be surprised if it were the case._

_Either way, I write this with the hopes that you, should you inherit this gift, will be more prepared for the responsibilities it brings than I. The dead do not rest easily. I have found the reality of that statement to be a chilling, towering roadblock throughout my career as a shinobi. Perhaps you are wiser, and will not follow that same path— regardless, I have found joy in the knowledge that I, that **we** , can nudge them onwards in their journey towards the Pure Land. That such is what is expected of us, as the only ones capable of it in the first place._

_I have included in this journal all that I have managed to learn about my gift, my great-grandmother Nanoha’s supposed legacy. I rest easy knowing that only those who possess the necessary clan trait may access this journal at all; I die restlessly with the hope that the legacy carries on into the new generation, and that you might be the one to do so. That if you are not, you would at least pass this remnant down onto your own descendants, until it reaches the one for whom it was intended. Doubtlessly they are as eager to understand why the dead haunt their steps as I once was._

_With faith—_ __  
_Hatake Kazuki_ __  
11 th Head of the Hatake Clan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit earlier in the day today; I'm ill and didn't want my medicine to knock me out before I had a chance to upload the chapter. It's short this time. Yesterday's is a bit of an outlier in that regard. This is still a drabble series.
> 
> Journal entries from Kazuki will crop up every so often. He isn’t going to be showing up in person again — he has very much moved on to the Pure Land — but the information he left behind is vital if the Hatake want to reach any kind of understanding in regards to Kakashi’s abilities. Most of what you can expect from these interludes is chakra theory and random philosophical tidbits. You can skip them, but you might find yourself confused by some technical jargon further down the line.


	4. [PREVIEW] Minato — The Apprenticeship (Age 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life as a weapon inevitably yielded a body count. Everyone had blood on their hands. Being reminded of the fact was something few ever wanted.
> 
> (A chapter preview, and an important update)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the complete radio silence on my end as far as updates go, I have had a bad time the last few months and am, more importantly, laid up with a fracture and chip in two bones near my wrist. I have no mobility in my thumb, and as a result I cannot type. Depending on my next X-ray results I may also be looking at major surgery on my hand. Currently I am making posts with the assistance of voice to text, but given that said technology does not recognize almost any Japanese names or terms used in Naruto fan fiction, I can’t rely on it for writing purposes. Sorry.
> 
> I am uploading a preview of the next chapter for each of my stories to tide everyone over until my hand recovers; I have over 2,000 words written for the next Ghosts chapter, and around 5,000 for eye of a storm. The previews are a few hundred words each. I just felt really horrible making everyone wait so long.
> 
> These preview chapters will be deleted once the actual chapters are completed. Everyone is welcome to follow me on [Tumblr](http://redeyereprisal.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/redeyereprise) for periodic updates on my progress in both writing and recovery. I'm also open to answering questions via AO3 comment or FFN PM, though again, I can't type and am relying mostly on copy and paste or voice to text for communication.
> 
> I hope you enjoy what little I am able to provide, for now.

When the Sandaime had approached him with the offer of an apprenticeship (rather, when the Sandaime had ordered him to take on an apprentice), Namikaze Minato had not been sure what to think. He was still a fresh jōnin; he’d been promoted a little over a year ago, and though he’d admittedly been part of the Chūnin Corps since he was _eleven,_ his mission repertoire was not yet on the impressive level anticipated for early graduates such as himself. He had only just met the required number of A-ranks.

He was also only _sixteen_. Teaching was not something he’d expected to do until he was at least in his twenties, assuming he survived that long. To be perfectly honest, it was not something he felt ready for. But the Hokage had been firm in his assertion that Minato was the _only one_ he trusted to take on this particular student, so he had kept his mouth shut and complied. Though he had admitted to being rather curious as to who it was he was being entrusted with. The Sandaime had just smiled placidly and said:

“He’s a rather unique case. There are many people who would exploit his… quirks, and not all of them would do so out of loyalty to me. Were Jiraiya here, I would have asked he take the boy on, but he is not, and so here we are. Perhaps my student would be willing to do so when he returns. I am certain you, at least, will handle him well in the meantime.”

It had felt overwhelmingly ominous. There were a lot of people Minato could think of that had “quirks.” Every single one of them was terrifying, and not someone he would ever willingly mentor, regardless of the fact that all of them were older than him anyway. Jiraiya-sensei had the habit of peeping in on hot springs and writing sub-par smut stories; he was part of the Sannin and the first person to receive approval from the toads as summoner since the Warring States. Tsunade-sama was apparently something of a gambler, although Minato had only ever heard his sensei say so; she was the greatest medic the Elemental Nations had ever seen. Orochimaru-sama was frightening in an entirely different manner that only served to further prove his point. Hatake-taichō was a notoriously aggressive and persistent mother hen, and also held on the same level as _the aforementioned Sannin themselves._

Even Minato’s girlfriend Kushina — a recent development that still had him smiling goofily — had her fair share of tics, verbal one notwithstanding. Quirky, as far as he was concerned, was a sure sign of potential power and future fear-factor. He wasn’t sure if he could handle a quirky student. A quirky student whose oddities could be exploited? The simple thought of it made him uneasy. But Minato was nothing if not resilient and determined, and his title of “genius” was not undeserved. He would make it work. Somehow.

Alas, those thoughts did not last any further than the night before team assignments, when Minato finally opened his prospective student’s file. All he had to do was read the name “Hatake” before he felt the weight of his task settle onto his shoulders with unrelenting force.

[TO BE CONTINUED. SEE NOTES FOR MORE DETAILS.]


End file.
